


points of impact

by evanescent



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, with a... hopeful ending i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16146893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent/pseuds/evanescent
Summary: He recalls his restlessness eventually took him to the showers and he must have spent some time under the water because after he got out, the chair by the computer was empty and instead he found Bruce further down along the Cave, standing in front of the case holding Jason’s old costume.Jason’s skin itches and his fingers jerk, gripping at the towel around his neck....Three times Jason's memorial case is broken, and one time it stays that way.





	points of impact

**Author's Note:**

> you have probably noticed, but this year isn't the best for me when it comes to posting something. i really have to fight for every finished piece. sighs
> 
> first three scenes are canon, coming from knightfall, bruce wayne: fugitive, batman and son
> 
> in the first part, warnings for death ideation and just. bruce not being in a good place

(i.)

 _I’m so tired_ , Bruce thinks as Bane smashes his head against the side of the Batmobile.

It hurts, but his whole body _hurts_ , like a big bruise, one wound over another, broken bones, torn flesh, strained muscles, everything coming apart at the seams because of lack of sleep and rest. Even something trivial, like not fully cured sickness that lingered when Bane broke out the inmates from Arkham and made Batman run his gauntlet from hell – it’s been piling up for weeks, exhausting his strength when it came to this crucial fight.

No, that’s not it. Not just that, and Bruce knows. He’s been lying to himself long enough.

Bane’s kick sends him flying and when he smashes against something, it gives, breaks, hundreds of pieces and shards falling around him, cutting him to blood. _Glass_ , he realizes. _Robin’s – Jason’s – memorial case_ , he thinks as he absent-mindedly picks up the domino, yellow cape pooled around him.

This bone-deep exhaustion coming from his very soul, making him push himself to and over his limits, carry on despite the injuries, only to collapse when his body couldn’t take it anymore, solace and repose not to be found even in sleep. And still, he repeated it, over and over again – it’s been going on for months now. Tim helped him get back on the right path, saved from the brink, but even so, he might have only delayed the inevitable – the death of a man with no will to go on.

 _I want this to end_ , Bruce thought more times that he wished to count. The pain, the anger, the fear. _I can’t handle another loss_. But still, he pushed through the fog clouding his mind, for Gotham and its citizens.

 _You are already broken_ , Bane told him earlier, not even mocking, just stating a fact.

And now, even though he craves relief and release the death offers, he gets up, his legs weak and shaking, his chest burning, every breath threatening to burst it open. He can’t just give up, throw his life down.

He could not face Jason or his parents after that.

And if it ends here and now – when it ends, one way or the other – he can at least say he tried. He did his best.

He’s so tired.

…

(ii.)

Dick is already brimming with anger when he throws the first punch.

All of them have been running themselves into the ground ever since Bruce was arrested, weighed down with fears, stress and exhaustion (and doubts, in cases of some), but Dick thought they were on the same page here – finding the real killer of Vesper Fairchild and clearing Bruce’s name.

And Bruce escapes from police custody, still refusing to give them explanations and simply stating that he leaves, that Bruce Wayne was just a mask that’s no longer useful.

And Dick didn’t want to restore to fighting, but it’s been one hell of a week and he’s _done_. He and Bruce have years of practice at arguing; if the man doesn’t want to talk, fine, but at least, Dick will make him stop evading. Because that’s what Bruce’s been doing, even now, even as he dodges another of Dick’s kicks and doesn’t counter it, either.

Dick is angry, and worried, and scared.

 _I know you!_ , he wants to tell Bruce, his fingers almost closing at the cape only for him to grasp at air. _You’re a stubborn, hypocritical man who is too hard on himself, but you’re not a murderer, I know that. You took me in and raised me. You’re my father_ , he thinks, kicking at the space where Bruce just was. _And you don’t give up. We can work this out together. Don’t run away from your life! Don’t leave._

In a way, Dick is _glad_ when Bruce finally punches back. He cares, he’s not through yet, they can still salvage this.

Or so he thinks, still blinded by rage and anxiety, when instead of Bruce’s chin, his fist collides with the glass of Jason’s case. The momentum, aided by Bruce pushing off of his back, sends Dick’s hand and arm through the front and back panes, and then the whole thing crumbles, leaving Dick with Jason’s – his old – costume hanging from his arm. He can only stare at it, dumbfounded and horrified.

That does its work better than a bucket of ice cold water would. For a moment, the Cave is deadly silent in Dick’s ears, and the illusion is broken by the rumble of an engine signaling that Bruce did, after all, take his leave.

Dick can feel the anger physically draining out of him, leaving only cold numbness in its wake. His own outburst briefly reminds him of another anger, Bruce’s visceral and bleeding rage of loss during their first encounter after Jason’s death. Both then and now, it ended with Bruce leaving the Cave and Dick’s good intentions being knocked down.

He was wrong. It looks like Batman hasn’t given up on his mission, but Bruce sure as hell gave up on _them_.

…

(iii.)

Damian didn’t plan ahead to send Drake falling from the top of the dinosaur into one of the glass cases down below, but it certainly did its work and got him out of the way.

When he gets down there, he finds Drake unconscious and bleeding, but pays him no mind; his interest is piqued by the case that was smashed in the process. His Father apparently practices putting some of his and his associates' costumes on display, for reasons unknown to Damian, but something about this one stands out. He drags out a ridiculously colorful and terribly impractical costume from under Drake’s body, and with that, a small plaque scrapes against the glass and the floor. He regards the inscription.

 _Jason Todd. A Good Soldier_.

Damian was briefed on Batman’s allies, so he knows about Todd’s tenure as Robin and its failure ending in death. And he knows the boy came back as a man, an enemy of Batman and yet, for some unfathomable reason, Father still kept this memorial around.

It grates on Damian’s nerves; another pretender, another false son, another person his Father picked to have by his side. It ends now; the blood son has come to claim what’s rightfully his.

He did mean what he told Drake – he will inherit _everything_. He will make Robin his own, starting tonight.

He discards the bright cape, the sorry excuse for pants and the ridiculous shoes; this childish uniform is a relic of a time gone, he knows. Only the red tunic with green sleeves is deemed worth taking, and that’s because of the _R_ symbol on it. (He definitely doesn’t notice that it feels only a little too big on him.)

 _This is satisfactory for the moment_ , Damian thinks. With time, he will do better, he will be the best. Reminders of past failures won’t be necessary.

…

(+ 1.)

There’s dried blood on Jason’s aching knuckles, but he barely notices it, hunched over a bucket for the past half of an hour or so, since he’s feeling like puking his guts out, something bitter and hot swirling at the base of his itching throat. He wishes the bats in the damn Cave would shut up for at least for a moment and let him focus on something other than an excruciating sensation as his body rids itself of the toxin.

All in all, Jason’s not having the best night ever – or is it day already? It must be, though he’s not sure how many hours have passed since he and Bruce came back to the Cave.

“We’ve already established the toxin isn’t lethal if there are no complications, but neither we nor GCPD have found the antidote yet,” Oracle reported back on the comms as Jason sat in the backseat of the speeding Batmobile, cursing himself and wishing he was anywhere else. “The symptoms are similar to influenza, but more severe, and start to appear up to three hours after being exposed to the toxin. Depending on the person, there may be side-effects. Most of victims shown signs of getting better after twenty-four to thirty-six hours, so you have a chance of recovering considerably quick. But it’s contagious to an extent, so both Batman and Hood have to be quarantined for the duration of it.”

Basically, what Barbara had been saying, was, _You’re unlikely to die from it, but it’s going to be pain in the ass, so suck it up and deal_. Sheesh. This was definitely the last time Jason agreed to help the Bats work a case and it was _just his luck_ that Bruce also was exposed to the toxin.

Alfred suggested he could prepare them a lockdown upstairs, but Jason would rather die a second time than be stuck in a room at the Manor with Bruce for that long, so he insisted on staying in the Cave. The others sounded rather uncertain about leaving them unsupervised in a place full of weapons, gadgets and natural hazards, but he figured it’s spacious enough for them to stay out of each other’s ways and suffer the course of the detoxification.

The first several hours weren’t so bad; Jason lived through having the flu enough times to ignore the symptoms. He opted for tinkering with one of the old Batmobiles while Bruce worked on the computer, first on their current cases, later updating database. With time, however, Jason was starting to feel restless and unfocused, headache and discomfort in his chest too severe be ignored easily. Even Bruce appeared to struggle to keep his focus in check, as Jason could hear him typing away fast, only to pause for a long moment and proceed to delete what he just wrote.

He recalls his restlessness eventually took him to the showers and he must have spent some time under the water because after he got out, the chair by the computer was empty and instead he found Bruce further down along the Cave, standing in front of the case holding Jason’s old costume.

Jason’s skin itches and his fingers jerk, gripping at the towel around his neck.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, the first time he spoke to Jason ever since they removed their costumes after arriving.

Jason makes himself shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Been worse,” he replies. “You?”

Bruce gives a low, noncommittal growl in answer. He seems stiff, far away. He’s still staring at the case. For some reason, this irritates Jason.

“I never asked,” he starts, drying the ends of his hair once more before he slings the towel off of his shoulders. “You think this is doing something?” he points to the memorial with his chin.

He sees Bruce’s reflection frown. “What do you mean?”

“Gee, B, get a grip,” Jason snorts. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears and he’s starting to shiver again. “At first I thought it was kinda a nice touch, I guess. A proof you didn’t completely forget me.” He hated the plaque from the start, though. “But the more I thought about it, the more messed up and morbid this thing seemed. You didn’t build a memorial to my time as Robin. You built a shrine of guilt and self-loathing for yourself.”

“That’s… that’s not true,” Bruce protests, the line of his mouth hard and thin.

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’d rather look at a ghost of the kid who died than at me, alive here.”

Slowly, Bruce turns around and yeah, the toxin is definitely taking its toll on him as well. Jason can’t remember the last time he seemed so sick.

“I know you must know you can’t _mentally quash the toxin down_ while it’s still in your system, but it still doesn’t stop your from trying, huh?” he muses.

“Jason–” Bruce starts, but Jason doesn’t particularly feel like listening. Instead, he lurches forward and Bruce blinks, surprised, but his body is already moving, only a bit slower than usually.

Too bad this time he’s not the target for Jason’s outlet.

He means to punch through the case with the towel around his hand, for some semblance of protection, but at the last second, he lets it drop to the ground. He feels raw and sharp around the edges; he wants this to mean something.

The blood runs down his hand, dripping on the floor illuminated with glass, and Jason says, “That made me feel better.”

So that’s how things happened. Jason think it’s been an hour since then, but time is a funny thing. Smashing the case did make him feel better for a while, but then nausea seized him and left him hunched over on the cot in the medbay. He thinks he heard Barbara call the Cave and talk with Bruce a little a while ago, but his mind didn’t register the details.

Everything seems a little distant and distorted now; the pain in his knuckles and the destructive anger that came in a tidal wave. That’s why it takes him a moment to realize a blessedly cold compress is being pressed against his forehead. He can’t help but sigh with relief.

“Barbara said they tracked down and secured all the laboratories. No shipments have been made and no one else was exposed to the toxin in the process, so we can assume we were the last victims,” Bruce states.

“Good,” Jason says. He opens his eyes to regard Bruce for a moment. “You’re still angry, but I’m not sorry.”

“I know,” Bruce answers. “But I’m not angry for reasons you probably think I’m.”

“Really,” Jason comments flatly.

“It wasn’t the first time it was destroyed. Alfred and Tim were usually the ones to put it back together,” Bruce says, rubbing a hand across his face. Jason feels a stab of – something, dripping heavy with guilt and sickness. "I suppose… I suppose with time, all of us started to see it in different ways, warping its original purpose to fit our perceptions.”

“And what was its ‘original purpose’, Bruce?” Jason asks, sceptic. He hefts himself up, ignoring another wave of nausea. “What did you gain from making yourself see my suit every night you went down here, other than torturing yourself? Why not put the one I was killed in, while you were at that?”

The way Bruce jerks as that, as if Jason slapped him, is unnatural and stiff. “There…” He gulps, clear his throat. “There wasn’t really enough of that one left.”

“I figure,” Jason mumbles, suddenly regretting he breached the subject at all.

“I had to – replicate the damage from the uniform to your civilian clothes,” Bruce says, voice strained, hands gripped at the edge of the cot, “and I had to put you in them, so the authorities and emergency services wouldn’t know the truth.”

Jason breathes heavily. “ _Fuck_. Christ, B.”

Bruce twitches. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You didn't have to know that.”

“No shit,” Jason replies. He gets up and stands in front of Bruce, regarding his ashen, sweaty face and glazed over, unfocused eyes. “Are you okay?”

Bruce’s lips seem to quiver. “I–”

It’s only a matter of experience and good reflexes that Jason puts the bucket in front of Bruce in time. While Bruce stays hunched over it, panting heavily, Jason goes to fetch some wet towels and a glass of water for each of them. He hisses a little as he finally cleans his knuckles and bandages his hand; better late than never.

When he returns, Bruce is sitting on the floor, looking marginally better than before. He accepts the towels and the water. Jason sits down as well, stretching his legs.

“Putting that case up in the first place was one thing, but keeping it for so long that you became unable to let go of it and the memory it holds was unhealthy,” he tells Bruce, trying to sound as reasonable as he can.

“I realize,” Bruce says, closing his eyes. “But even after you came back, you didn’t… I couldn’t take it down. I would have, If you had asked me to. In the end, you were the only person that could do that.”

Jason still isn’t sure what the case really meant for Bruce. He thought it was the manifestation of guilt that Bruce still harbored, even though Jason told him a number of times he doesn’t blame him for not saving him. But maybe it wasn’t just that. _Even after you came back, you didn’t_ … He didn’t what? Didn’t come back _right_? Didn’t come back _the same_?

No, that wasn’t that.

He didn’t _come home_.

The case might have been a cage that Bruce built for himself, but Jason was the one who had the key.

“I didn’t ask you to take it down,” he says slowly, reaching for Bruce’s hand, “but I’m asking you not to put it back together.”

Bruce’s eyelids flutter open. “Alright,” he says, and squeezes Jason’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to smash the case in one of my fics for a long time now. felt good. organic. everybody should try that at least once
> 
> also, i swear the way tenses change in the last part is intentional. really
> 
> thanks for reading, hmu on twitter @ jaydonnakyle


End file.
